And the Wind told the Queen
by Veehementia
Summary: (Slightly AU, also first fanfic, so be nice lads!). In which the Castle did not fall, Yorda did not die, but Ico has gone nonetheless. How do you cope with everlasting lonliness?
1. Prologue

**_A/N:_**

 ** _An ICO story in 2017? Oh golly! Bet'cha didn't expect that! Jokes aside, chapter will be real short, but updated daily. As usual have fun and RR!_**

 **Prologue: But the Castle is not empty.**

The wind echoed in the castle. Dust running through its cracks, through rocks too old that witnessed history now forgotten. The wind is strong, and it feels cold. The now broken columns and roofs of the castle make it harder for the sun to pass, and as such, the place is bathing in shadows. On the walls, remnants of torches, once lit and now reduced to little, small cinder, gently blown away by the air that passes through the hallways.

But the Castle is not empty.

There's a throne. It's made of stone; hard and rigid, like its ruler. It is finely decorated- or at least it was. Time has gently consumed this glorious seat, and only glimpses of this work remains now, unrecognizable and tenaciously attached to its former glory. There's columns around, once used for the purpose of holding fire and _light_. The same very thing that this place misses the most.

The throne room is enormous, and the echoed wind almost deafen the poor ghosts that inhabit this place, such is its strength.

There's a beach, somewhere, under this castle built on rocks and ascended in air. The sand is white as _her_ , and the water is pure as it's _strong._

Still silence, even here, broken only by the almost too loud sound of waves crashing on the shore. Trying to break a fate binded to them, and thus, dying and reviving thanks to such tenacity.

But the Castle is not empty.

Green grass covers one of the only places covered in sunlight, gently growing around the stones. Dozens of tombs lie in there, all grey and once written. But now the time has erased those memories, making them wither away along with those scripts.

The balconies that cover this area are broken; some fallen, some are simply too unstable. Rocks fell on the floor, but grass is acceptance: it covers everything. And as such, those rocks now blend with the ground.

It's the castle's soul, the wind murmurs. It blends what was once inside of himself. It is nothing but a faint whisper sang in between the columns.

But the Castle is not empty.

There were drawings, art, on those walls. Some still remains; carrying out their duty as lingering wills, refusing to give up to time that still now, with gentle weeps and a the soft touch of wind, slowly caresses those old, _old_ drawings, bringing an all too slow death to those souls.

Dust falls from the walls- tears, maybe, of a construction who's seeing it's own demise by the hand of time.

The wind weeps along with the dust, it's singing echoing all around the castle.

Nobody is to listen.

But the Castle is not empty.

The Castle has stairs, rails even, witnesses of its own old and withering glory. Much of them are broken now; destroyed rocks block many paths, bridges falls under the heavy weight of years. Rusty chains rumbles against the wind, threatening to give up, to leave even that piece falling in the darkness of the sea beneath. But they do not.

The don't listen to the wind, not they weep for themselves. All of them, and the wind itself, all weeps for _her._

But the Castle is not empty.

There is a tower, much higher than any other one. Time had been forgiving with this one- her cries must have corrupted even this unforgiving judge.

Spikes come out from the top, windows of stone covering the very last area. Inside, there is a single chain, rustled and crying, but not at the time. It descends from the ceiling to the ground, attached to a cage of rusting black metal. The cage though, has now fallen, breaking the ending part of the chain, which now silently moves and cries for it has broken.

Such selfishness.

The fire coming from the torches is warm. It all too gently gets light on her, almost _afraid_ to touch such ethereal and delicate goddess.

Here, too, the wind weeps, bringing along the dust. Her hand caresses the ground, and she feels the sand and the rocks gently caressing her skin. Her pure, white skin.

She's the ruler now, a ruler of shadows and cries. Yet she does not sit on her throne; she does not call her spirits upon. She weeps, and the Castle weeps with her.

Because the Castle is not empty.

But there is only one inside.


	2. Chapter I

**_A/N: Not much to say here. As much as I would like to, I am not the head behind ICO, threrefore I own nothing. That said, have fun, and R &R if you'd like._**

 **Chapter I: A Silent Requiem That Plays Quietly**

She does not know how much time passed. In this castle, in this _word, to her,_ time meant little to nothing. A worthless amount of seconds that counted always and always forward, not really coming to an end.

Sometimes she exits the tower. The white, _glowing_ tone of her skin shines inside the tired walls, that still try to kneel in front of her beauty. She traces her hand along those tired mementos of her memories. A single tear would descend upon her frail visage, but she does not hold any more to shed.

There are many hallways to her path to the beach. The Castle seems almost _pleading_ her to not go, making her lost inside its mazes and rooms- but ultimately, it has to surrender to her will, and as such, even the wind tones down, respecting her will and no longer opposing her desire.

She reaches a big, semicircular room. A single pair of stairs lead outside, going up, towards the light. Her sight, thought, is not on the exit.

It's on the walls.

Dozens of stone sarcophagus, closed and forgotten, lie there. She can feel- she can feel the once gentle and now simply dark pleading of those cursed souls, her very own servants. But her eyes are not wavering and her ears do not distract her.

There is only one sarcophagus that made her heart come to a halt. She has seen it many, many times. But no matter what, the tears she forgot how to shed, fell upon her gentle face almost caressing her cheek, leaving nothing but a gentle trail of salty water on that perfect and ethereal visage.

She kneels to it, her bare feet touching the nude rock even harder than before. Her hands gently caress the stone before her, gently moving away the dust that time, as the unforgiving eraser he is, brought away from her dearest memories.

She looks at it slipping away from her grasp, not a single grain to stain her skin remains- and quietly, under the wind's lullaby, moving away, away, away.

Is that her destiny?

Is that to be unattainable, unreachable to not be tainted by the world?

Is that why she lost him?

She gets up, now slowly moving up the stairs. The courtyard is immense, and two enormous closed stone doors towered upon her small, frail, distant figure. Tombs, grass, all is there. She walks slowly but cannot evade the sight.

There's a black hole in the floor. The rocks are broken, dust is falling into the depths of the castle. Near the border, a simple, worn out wooden stick.

She himself quietly near it, but does not caress it. The wind has stopped, unauthorized to caress what _she_ herself has deemed untouchable. Instead, she slowly fall on the ground, her white and pure vests touching the dirt, until she's close both to the border and the stick. She stares, but the action doesn't comfort her would, and as such, as the wind begins to move, other tears shed on her beautiful face.

The obscured, white sun never moves or goes away. The slim mist covering the place never rest, it's smell entering in your bones. Thus, she does not know how much time passed when she wakes up. Did she sleep on the dirt?

Yes, yes she did.

Moving up, she gets on her feet, white as snow, and sees the dirt falling off her clothes. She's still radiant.

She's still distant.

In a sense, she understands Mother now. The dark robe, the withering form, the blurry limits of physical and abstract.

But it was yet not time.

She just moves as the two towering doors, shivering in reverence in front of her, tremble and move away, crumbling more and more at every step.

The sand feels soft and pure under her feet, and finally, she can blend with something as white and pure as her. She cannot see where her body ends and the sand starts; yet she can _feel_ , and so she cursed that body of hers, for the time it has given her.

Time consumed in desperation.

The green fruit had been withering. Useless were her cries to time; that which is alive has another ruler, and he's deaf to her pleads. No use was prohibiting the wind to caress it, ultimately, she could do nothing.

In a last, desperate touch, she saw it crumble to dust, gently picked away from her skin by the wind.

She cries, but she doesn't know if she's screaming.

She does know she miss. Dearly.

Why couldn't he come back?

She listened to the sea, waiting for an answer, but all she got was a silent Requiem that plays quietly, accompanying her silent weeps and hurtful cries.


	3. Chapter II

**_A/N: Welp, be it for I suck or because Ico itself has passed away, but damn this ain't going too well. But don't worry, fellas: I'll finish and leave it here, so that someone with a nostalgia-stroke can find it. As usual, have fun and RR!_**

 ** _Ps: As you may have noticed, I don't own Ico. At all._**

 **Chapter II: All Hail The Queen.**

The salty water gently touched her feet, but no matter what impurities it brought, her skin was pure, her beauty unattainable.

How could someone live so distant?

After some time passed (she herself did not know how much; hours? Days? Maybe even years?) she decided to get up, to stop listening to that Requiem that so desperately tried to comfort her. Time all erase and nothing gives, and as such, it reduced to ashes the only, poor memory of the girl.

The towering door trembled again at her sight, and she remembered asking herself what means had all this power in such a desolate life made of nothingness.

Where time is nothing but a meaningless word for you, but a cruel destroyer of your memories.

She wished she could order it, too. She tried many times, but the grass never stopped growing, the rocks never stopped breaking, the drawing never stopped withering. Time had not listened to her pleads, deaf to her cries and unstoppable in his crusade.

She once tried to escape, she remembers. It was at the start of it all, as the Castle came down. But her form withered, her all so ethereal skin faded, and she stopped before setting foot outside the gates. She was the Queen, and a Queen does not abandon her domain.

Be it madness, be it desperation, be it resolve, but she found herself walking quicker than any time before. The murmurs of those servants she all vehemently rejected haunted her; yet, she knew already.

It's the throne.

The wind is stronger now, it seems to be a warning, or maybe an invitation; sometimes, it was hard for her to understand the Castle. Her realm.

She caresses the old, dusty rocks that compose the throne, and the wind gently blows the dust away, almost like a gentle servant caring for his Queen.

She always neglected the throne, she thinks. Fear of who sat on it before her, fear of her mistakes, _fear of ruling._ But ultimately, loneliness led to madness, and she crossed that line all too long time ago.

She sits on it, trembling. Her arms gently posed, her gracious back leaned against the hard stone.

The Castle knows. The Castle understands.

Her white robe changes, stained by the destiny she choose after her limbo; its whiteness makes room for the darkest of back, an ethereal dance of shadows around her dress. Her eyes turn from lifeless gray to a deep, dead, blue.

Her hair become blueish as well. But she does not feel fear; that's what she choose- that's what it _had to be_ , one way or another.

From behind the columns, from beyond the window, from behind the throne and even from the floor itself, shadows appear. Those servants whose revenge, whose rage she always neglected, whose cruel fate was to never be released. They moved in spasms, the horns on their head the only distinguish feature in those bodies made of darkness and shadows. Their blue, glowing eyes speak for them, for they do not have a mouth, and only hurtful cries of desperation can be heard from within their cursed souls.

She moves her arm, and they absently follow, their movements dictated by hurtful spasm and uncoordinated jumps. She gets up from her throne, moving her arms toward the air in front of her.

The wind signs, the cursed souls cry.

 _All Hail The Queen,_ she hears.

 _All Hail The Queen._


	4. Chapter III

**_A/N: Not really much to say here. Enjoy!_**

 **Chapter III: Come Back**

Her servants inhabited the walls of the castle. She could hear their weeps clearly now; and stare at the cruel, unbreakable fate Mother had reserved for them.

But it was not enough. It couldn't fill her sorrowful heart, it could not fill the darkness in her soul. She needed the Cursed, but he was long gone. She herself cast him away, she murmurs, not to make him part of her suffering reality.

If only she had been a little more selfish…

She comes back to the stone sofa. She's become taller, she notes, and as such, she cannot sit as comfortably as she did _before._ A silent tear stain her ethereal visage at the realization of _what_ she casted away, of who she killed in order to be whole. She traces her dark arms in the stone, lingering for his warmth, for his voice, but nothing remains but painful memories of a joy casted away. Her still ethereally white visage tries to find rest on the hard stone, but her figure towers too much, and she cannot find rest like she did. Not without him.

Him.

How was him? Did he save himself? Was he alright? Was he still alive? Did he change, victim to the concept of time that she, too, would like to understand?

She did not know. She only hope. She only cried.

She only missed.

Since the Castle fell once, there were no sacrifices. No more horned children were given to her realm, no new shadows lurked under the stone.

Her horned child, could he really come back? Could he really come back and fill the emptiness left in this existence?

She looked at the horizon, but she saw nothing. The mist in which she was engulfed separated her realm from reality, from _anything,_ and the sea made this depth even more painful.

The shadows seemed to dance around her, maybe joyous about her fall, happy for her sufferance. Mother did not leave a face on those fallen spirits for them to weep; it wasn't meant for them, such a luxury. Such humanity.

That she would have so dearly discarded.

There's a library in the castle. Time has been clement with the paper; it's black letters are still readable, the knowledge still obtainable.

That's how Mother knew the boy's tongue, she realizes; those books aided her. If only she was allowed to read those before, maybe she could have been able to voice her heart to him. Maybe things would have been different. Maybe he would have stayed- no, he _had to go_ , there was no place for him in there, she knew and sent him away.

In that frail boat, small, in the big blue sea.

In the white engulfing mist.

There's a water pond in the courtyard. It's big enough for the sun to reflect on it, and the water is clear. She gazed at it out of curiousity, under the big stone windmill.

Her eyes widen on her figure. She _knew_ she changed, but she never gazed at herself before; there's no mirrors in the Castle, she notes.

Her short, gray hair are now long and dark- blueish, she notes. Her visage looks _tired_ and that she can understand. The dark robe that blends her body is one with her new dark arms, a shadow of the purity they used to be.

She's her Mother now, she thinks. One way or another, her will had been fulfilled, she bitterly remarks. What would he say about this? Would he still hold her dark hand? Would he still guide her inside the big hallways of her Castle?

Ripples forms on the pond beneath her, the reflection one of a crying ethereal visage hidden beneath clouds of darkness.

The library holds secrets. Many of them are not well-hidden; the wind told her so during one of his songs.

Other, instead, were obtainable only as Queen. Black books towered over the others, without a title nor finely decorated covers. They were just closed books, until she touched them.

There were horrid writings inside. Rituals, beasts, the Castle's truth laid bare in all its gruesome existence.

Sacrifices of the horned ones for _his_ comeback.

Suddenly, her mother's actions acquired a sense. It was not for power she slaughtered, it was not for authority she condemned; no, no, it was for _him._

 _The boy whose name seemed to be Wander, the first of the Horned children._

She saw those curses, recognized those doings. But she would have not called _Wander_ back.

She would have called _Ico._

There's a single whisper in the mist, but for once, it's not the wind's desperate sing. Her sweet voice engulf the mist. She's calling.

And the cursed shall answer.


End file.
